“Do you think Wat is ever going to open these gates?” she asked. The bell had rung. The time for their congress had come and gone.
Ott’s mouth twisted in pain. “Remember, Wat was Suten’s man and Arko’s too. Can we trust him?”
“Trust?” she asked. “No. Never. We trust only each other. Everyone else is—”
“A foe?”
“Potentially. Do you doubt it?”
“No. I’ve learned plenty about our foes. They multiply by the day, but surely there is someone we can trust?”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” said Sarra. She was a bit surprised by his last comment. “I hope you’re not going weak on me, Geta.” She grinned when the false name left her lips. “Not long ago, we were simple priests. I was once a landless queen, and don’t forget that I started my life as a Wyrren girl from a bankrupt house. Today, we preside over the city of the gods. True friends will be hard to come by, and any ally we make will be nothing more than an opportunist.” She rattled the gate. “I wonder if the second bell will ring before these doors open.”
Bronze gates sheltered the entry to Wat’s complex. A curious set of oculi graced each panel, the openings varying in size and aperture. Some sort of map, she thought, of the moon’s phases, perhaps. The Soleri were obsessed with such things, and they were the ones who had built this place. Through the various waning and waxing crescents, she saw snippets of what lay beyond: a garden, a columned hall, and a fair number of guards, all clad in the bright yellow of the city of Solus.
Unexpectedly, the gate parted. A man appeared in a robe of fine muslin, the sleeves trimmed with gold. He motioned and they followed him into a courtyard packed with guards.
“Wat isn’t taking any chances,” she said.
“None of us should, what with the fires,” said Ott, “and those pilgrims at the Antechamber. The city is…” He hesitated.
He did not often question Sarra. In fact, she could not recall the last time he’d done it. “A mess,” she said. “I know the state of the city, and I’m equally aware that I’ve done little to correct the situation, but all of that is about to change,” she said, her voice clear and strong. Even Ott mustn’t doubt me, she thought, though she feared he might already question one aspect of her leadership: her ability to protect him. The days he’d spent in the Protector’s Tower had changed him somehow.
She looked him up and down as they waited, Sarra in her finest whites, Ott looking corpse-white in his woolen robe. They were sheltered from the sun, but not the heat and the noise. The cries of the pilgrims, though distant, drummed in her ear. Sandbags held back the flames, but the smoke was not so easily subdued. It was everywhere in the Waset. The fire beneath the Antechamber showed no sign of retreating. It was an angry, stubborn thing, as unrelenting as the man it consumed.
“They’re calling it Mithra’s Flame, the Light of the First Ray,” said Sarra, who had only just heard the name on their short journey from the Ata’Sol to the House of Ministers.
“I’ve heard it called Harkana’s Revenge, though it’s hardly a name I’d repeat,” said Khalden Wat. Suten’s old servant had at last appeared.
“I wouldn’t repeat it either, though I fear it’s closer to the truth,” said Sarra. “Khalden.” Sarra used his first name because she had, as of yet, bestowed no title upon the man. He would have to earn back whatever power he once held, and she wanted him to know it.
Wat looked only slightly injured by her greeting. “Mother Priestess, they say you have been elevated to the position of First Ray, the eyes and mouth of our lord, Tolemy. Is this so?” he asked, which was perhaps his own way of putting Sarra in her place—making her announce the role she had already acquired.
“It is,” said Sarra. “My exit from the Empyreal Domain was witnessed by many, including one of our more prominent citizens.”
“I know as much,” said Wat, “and your predecessor’s death is well known.” He inclined his head toward the Antechamber.
“Yes, the fire,” said Sarra. “I wouldn’t worry about it. The Antechamber blaze is just the mob’s latest entertainment. I’m sure they’ll find another one or they’ll go home when their stomachs start to growl.”
“Let us hope. We haven’t slept well in this house, not with the chanting and the smoke.”
“No one sleeps well in Solus these days. Don’t start thinking yourself a victim, Wat. There’s work to be done, which is why I am here.”
“As am I.” Wat bowed. “I offer you Mithra’s greatest blessing and wish that your reign is both long and distinguished.”
Sarra grinned slightly, the smile never reaching her eyes. She hoped her reign would be a long one. Her predecessor’s had been rather brief and anything but distinguished.
“Shall we go somewhere more private? Your offices?” asked Sarra.
“Oh, of course,” said Wat. “Follow me.” He ushered her forward, then glanced toward Ott. “Shall all of us go?”
“Yes, I always travel with a scribe. This is Geta,” said Sarra, and she gave no further explanation for Ott’s presence or his physical condition, which must have looked absurd. Wat said nothing about it. He was a keen man and had likely guessed at Ott’s identity.
He led them up a grand flight of steps, through a marvelous hall, windowless, but lit by tiny pinpricks in the walls and ceiling. “The Hall of Stars,” he announced. It was the first of several great chambers. Wat had apparently arranged a tour of some sort. He led Sarra through the Hall of Rushes, where the ceiling was hung with a thousand dangling rushlights, all of them swaying this way and that. He guided them into the Chamber of Spheres, pointing out a row of globes that illustrated the various known landforms, as well as a few mythical ones. It was all a lavish affair, but she hurried through the room with the spheres and the libraries that followed, hastening past tapestries of improbable height and carvings both large and small. Wonders surrounded Sarra, but she did not lift her head to acknowledge them. Wat tried to point out one or two. “This statue was carved by Rehnet the Tenth himself,” he said, but she brushed aside the comment. She did it again when he paused to point out the detailing in a frescoed ceiling and once more when he attempted to describe the quality of the workmanship in some glassware.
“Your offices,” she said to Wat.
“What about them?”
“Where are they? I thought we were going straight to them.”
“We are. I just thought you might like—” Wat bit down on his lip. He turned and led her in an altogether different direction, through a smaller corridor, one meant for workers, she guessed. It led to a large hall, a place without grandeur. There were no statues or ornamented vaults, but there were a great number of trestle tables—hundreds, actually. On them, ministers copied notes and proclamations. They scribbled on wax tablets or sheets of parchment. Men with careful eyes affixed seals or contemplated the legitimacy of ones that had only just arrived. This was the great machine that kept the empire churning.
“It’ll do,” said Sarra.
“For what?” Wat asked.
“For my place of office. The Antechamber is destroyed. I cannot rule the empire from that smoldering ruin, and if the Ray held office in the Ata’Sol it would only confuse the people. I am no longer the Mother. I am Ray, nothing more or less, and this is surely a suitable office for the emperor’s first servant. The place is big enough for a dozen Rays. I’m sure there’s sufficient space for the two of us.”
Wat stumbled a bit with his words, or perhaps he was only pretending to do so and was instead hiding a bit of frustration. “Yes, of course. In fact, these men are already in your service. I’ve simply been keeping them working, as I have for some time. You must have known that Suten was ill for many years before his departure, and the Harkan barely had time to comprehend the scope of his role. I’ve kept the messages flowing, doing the thankless work that keeps an army fed or an outpost stocked.”
“Good. Change nothing, but give us a little space. The Ray needs an Antec
hamber. I trust there are private rooms within the hall. In fact, I’ve heard there is one that is adjacent to the Shroud Wall itself?”
“Yes, we can visit it if you’d like.”
“Posthaste.”
When they arrived at the chamber, servants closed the doors behind them, sealing them into the room. Sarra gave it a good look. The ceiling was high, and a clerestory ran along one wall, providing a bit of light. Frescoes of gold and lapis shimmered in the afternoon sun. Wat indicated a slender door.
“It leads to the Empyreal Domain,” he said, “but it’s locked from the other side.”
“The Kiltet will tend to the door. I’ll need it,” she said, still looking around the room, sizing it up. “And I’ll require you to furnish this chamber in a manner that is suitable to my office.”
“Of course,” he replied, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I’ll have it done today.”
“Good,” said Sarra as she leaned her back against the wall. Ott found a low stool and placed himself uneasily atop it.
Wat merely stood. “No one can hear us in here—I’m quite certain of that,” he said. Then he glanced at Ott, as if to acknowledge her secret. Perhaps he wanted Sarra to identify her son, to confirm the rumors, but she would do no such thing. There were important matters at hand, so she ignored his unspoken query.
“You seem like a good man, Wat. We’ve spoken in passing many times, but never at length. I am going to place a great deal of trust in your hands. I have no choice. I can’t run this empire without you.”
“You need not worry about my loyalty. I swore an oath to the empire.”
“Men swear all sorts of things and most of those pledges are as solid as the air they are carried upon.”
“No,” Wat corrected her. “I swore my oath to Suten’s father. It was a vow I took in blood.” He pulled back his sleeve and revealed a scar. “That was the old way, and perhaps it is lost to many, but not me. I bound my promise to my blood. To break it—”
“Is to forfeit your life. I understand. It all sounds very Harkan. They’re always drawing blood and making promises. A king once promised me his fidelity, but…” She did not elaborate. Sarra wanted to trust Wat, but he was a man of Sola. She doubted the truth of what he promised. “Still,” she said. “You have the eyes of an honest man.”
“And you have nowhere else to go,” said Wat with a slight chuckle.
He was right, of course, and she knew it. Sarra flashed him a grin. Perhaps there was more to this old man than she guessed.
“Now let us speak of Harkana,” Wat said.
“What of it?”
“We’ve received a dispatch from Harwen. A new king sits upon the throne and begs for the empire’s recognition.”
“And?” asked Sarra, her lip curling upward with impatience.
“The boy is a complete mystery. He claims to be your son, and Arko’s as well, but the former Ray can hardly confirm the boy’s parentage—can you?”
“No,” said Sarra. “He’s not my son, and this is all news to me. Do not acknowledge the boy, not yet—not until I know the truth of the matter.”
“A prudent course of action,” Wat said. “Some plan is afoot, but no one knows the truth of it … Such are the times.”
“In that we are agreed. Is there anything else? Has any other kingdom sprouted an heir?”
“No,” Wat said, “Harkana is the only kingdom to be so fortunate.”
“That’s the end of it?”
“There is the matter of your ascension, my Ray. If that’s what I may call you?”
“Call me Sarra—what of it?”
“We must prepare for your journey into the mountain,” he said. “The Eye of the Sun is lost, but perhaps the task itself might hold some meaning. It will announce the start of your—”
“No.” Sarra was already shaking her head. “I’m not going to wander beneath some damned mountain. There will be no fire upon the hill because there is no jewel to light it. The Eye of the Sun lies beneath the Antechamber. That gem is the last thing I want the people to think about. There’ll be no feast and no naming ceremony and the sun shall be the only light upon the mountain. I intend to ignore all of the usual formalities. I told Mered as much.”
“What do you mean?” asked Wat. He truly did look baffled. “What will you have me do?”
“I want you to draft a declaration. Send out the criers as soon as we’ve finished our little talk. Damn the traditions, I am the First Ray and when the sun rises tomorrow I will hold my first audience in the Golden Hall.”
Wat gave her a pitiful look. “Sarra, you forget yourself. At first bell tomorrow we will be on high holiday. The Opening of the Mundus of Ceres is a two-day event, if I recall. During this feast, as with any other such occasion, it is strictly forbidden for any man or woman to go about their business, to hold an audience or attend one. You know as much.” Wat offered Sarra a knowing glance. “You seek to avoid the trap your predecessor stumbled on, but you’re already in it.”
10
“Harkana has a king,” said Merit as she stood on the low hills that encircled the city of Harwen, legs planted on the rocky earth, blue dress blowing in the wind.
“That’s generous,” said Shenn. “I was going to call him a traitor or perhaps a fraud.” He stood uneasily upon the sandy knoll, his leg and chest bandaged, a cane wedged against the palm of his hand. He still carried the wounds he’d taken on the Elden Hunt. Her once-strong husband could barely even stand. She eyed him with pity perhaps, or maybe it was resentment. It was the emperor who married her to a man who chose not to love women. Shenn could not deny his true nature, and she could not blame him for doing it. He was a husband in name only. But he was a friend, the best she had, and perhaps that meant something. He grinned when he caught her eye. “Merit, tell me what sort of man keeps a queen regent waiting?” He pointed to a spot on the wall. “I used to sit at my window and watch the changing of the guard at that very place. I can still see them in my thoughts, coming and going. I know the patterns and I don’t see them. These aren’t our soldiers.”
“Then whose men are they? And how could this happen? We were away for, what … three weeks?”
“Perhaps four,” said Shenn. “But I hardly think it matters.”
“Agreed,” said Merit. “None of this could have occurred without a great deal of planning. If these aren’t our soldiers, they must be mercenaries or they’re part of some army we haven’t met. They can’t be Harkan. This isn’t an insurrection—is it?”
“No, this isn’t the work of some angry warlord. Harkans don’t go stealing thrones in the night. It just isn’t done,” said Shenn.
“Right. They’d want to cut me down in front of everyone.”
“Yes, we’re a murderous bunch,” said Shenn. “But at least we’re honest. We don’t steal crowns.”
“I’m forced to agree, though I have sent messengers to the warlords, calling them to my camp. Most are engaged in the conflict to the south, but a few stayed behind to protect their lands.”
“Will they come to your side?” Shenn asked.
“It’s their sworn duty, but these are strange times.”
“Barca and his army of traitors,” said Shenn. “He’s more trouble than we guessed.”
“Yes, it’s ironic—isn’t it? We sent the army south to make certain our kingdom was safe from invasion, and someone took their march as an opportunity to seize the throne.”
“Irony’s got nothing to do with it. I’m calling it piss-poor luck,” said Shenn, grimacing slightly as he pressed his weight against the cane.
“I think not,” said Merit, her scowl deepening. “They were aware of my absence as well as the army’s, and they knew about this rumored heir to the throne. I’m guessing this new king will claim he is the trueborn son of Arko and Sarra. There are few who can prove him wrong.”
“A boy with half a claim to the crown arrived, and with little or no force took the kingdom?” Shenn asked. There was dou
bt on his face and in his voice.
“Your guess is as good as mine. For all I know he is the rightful heir and king, or maybe he’s the bastard.” Merit ran a hand through her long black hair, her fingers filling up with sand. “We won’t know until we walk through those gates.”
“And when will that happen?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” She kicked at the sandy earth. “I’m out of patience.”
“You are also out of choices. We’re not going to breach those walls, not without a ladder or two, and it’ll take time to manufacture siege equipment. Our soldiers aren’t prepared for this sort of thing. We barely have enough provisions to get us through the night.”
“I know as much.” Merit settled on a large rock, her eyes fixed once more on Harwen’s sunbaked walls, thoughts spiraling toward despair. It was then that she heard the tap of sandals on the hard rock. Sevin had joined them on the hilltop.
“The Ferens are asking to go,” he said. “They came to deliver the queen regent, and they did it. There’s an uneasy feeling here and the men want to ride out under the cover of night.”
“Let them go,” said Merit. “This isn’t their fight.”
“Are you certain?” Sevin asked. “A man can never have too many swords.”
“They’re not my men.”
“I’ll let them know,” said Sevin, but already she could see the Ferens readying their horses for the ride. She knew the men had only enough provisions for the journey there and back, and she had no means to feed them.
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